


Twist and Writhe

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Episode: s09e05-06 What Lies Tangled Parts 1-2, M/M, Takes place after series 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 07:50:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13026534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: You have to get there first





	Twist and Writhe

When he has free time; a day off or a Saturday, Robbie takes the train to Paddington and the underground to London Bridge.  Chapel Street Café is within sight of the Thames at Southwark.  If he can, he sits at the corner table which gives him the best view of the street.  He orders a black coffee and then a second. 

He has never much liked London.  Even before it took his wife and devoured her.  It is too formless; a place without centre or border, a collection of annexed parishes clinging to the banks of a wayward river.  But it is a relief to be briefly free of Oxford and its village outlook.  He appreciates the anonymity this city grants.  An unremarkable man among thousands; he would scarcely merit a glance from any observer, no CCTV camera would train its gaze on him for more than a moment.  Just as that same unblinking eye might once have registered without pause, James on the way to the rest of his life.  

He finishes his second coffee and before heading home, stops to look out at the river. He gets to know it as the weeks go by.  High and agitated or low and quiet.  Tea-brown or grey or, rarely, blue.  The river, kindred spirit, also travels here from Oxford.  Corralled and controlled on its path through this city, it is never quite tamed.  Sometimes he imagines this placid god rising to reclaim the land. 

He finds Laura at home in her conservatory, arranging the last of the season’s roses in a vase.  The precision of her pruning is unsurprising. 

He had forgotten she too had an afternoon off.  It is a warm, early autumn day and they had made plans, also forgotten.  She pours him a glass of wine from the bottle she has already opened and tells him she has moved his things into the guest room. 

“Ah, Laura, pet.  I’m sorry.” 

She touches his face, tenderly, with the tips of her fingers, “We’re too old for marriages of convenience aren’t we, Robbie?” 

His last case with James was all about knots.  Uniquely the mathematics of them, not simply the familial, financial and sexual ties which are the reliable staples of murder.  Knots were the victim’s subject; the unimaginable knots and coils of DNA packed within the cells of all living things.  Not so hard to imagine with James.  His DNA is no doubt enhanced with extra strength sailors’ knots suitable for lashing mainsails in a gale.  Which is to say, he can get himself wound up pretty tight sometimes. 

Robbie once told James that life could be understood as a series of moments.  His life with Val, the children growing up.  All wearing away in memory to a handful of jewels.  Robbie prefers to keep hold of the threads binding those moments together; family, work, the place you come to call home, the weaving or tangling you do by living through the ordinariness of your life.  He finds it hard to adjust when, time and again, it all unravels. 

Lizzie tells him, ‘Inspector Hathaway left, sir.  People leave jobs all the time, don’t they?’.  Perhaps, but he is not sure people leave their entire lives behind with the frequency James does. 

Bombs had been a feature of that last murder investigation.  He and James had not been in any real danger when one detonated in their presence, but they had not known it at the time.  James had pulled Robbie clear when his mistaken instinct had been to go to the aid of the civilian.  He remembers the dust of the explosion; a snow flurry of ash and plaster and, when the apparent danger passed, how impossible it was to relinquish his own fast grip on the man. 

They had gone straight back to work with the blast still ringing in their ears.  Had that been a mistake?  He knows he discovered a tremor in his own hand a day later when, case closed and leave started, he finally sat down with a drop of the hard stuff.  What of James?  Already preoccupied with a failing father, coming out with all manner of unexpected things, dispatching Robbie to tell Laura he loved her, hitting a nerve frankly.  It had not occurred to Robbie to seek him out. He had left him alone.  He had left James alone.  _James_.  

They had spoken at the airport the next day, wished each other well, gone their separate ways.  But when Robbie returned from New Zealand, James had disappeared. 

He resigned the day after his father died, when Robbie and Laura had been gone a week.  He worked his notice while he buried his dad and sold his flat.  According to Lizzie, he stored a few crates; books and music mostly, in his sister’s garage and disposed of everything else.  All the while, dodging questions about his future plans and sending not so much as a text to Robbie to warn him. 

It was a methodical working loose of everything binding him to place and person.  An expert in unpicking, this had happened before.  The last time Robbie left, James did too, embarking on a long walk which he then would not talk about.  Returning to become a detective inspector for equally mysterious reasons. 

He had done well; carrying the senior rank with natural authority.  Serious, austere, occasionally brilliant, with something of the Victorian undertaker about him in those three-piece black suits.  Robbie had allowed himself to believe James’ old doubts were behind him and he was now committed to the profession. 

Would Robbie have gone to New Zealand had he known of the plan taking shape?  He suspects he would.  He has always attempted to keep his relationship with James rational, to that which would be expected of two colleagues who might, at most, be friends.  But he would definitely have tried to talk him out of it, reminded him of the extremes his own grief had once driven him to.  Because surely, James was at least partly, backing away from the loss of his last parent. 

Not that it had made any difference last time.  Robbie had talked himself hoarse and James buggered off anyway.  And why should it have made a difference?  If they really were no more than colleagues? 

Ah, here he is again.  Tying himself in proverbial knots attempting to apply logic to the enigma of James.  Trying to explain away the complex physics of their personal string theory.  When he knows, he does know, beneath the surface, corralled and controlled, there is something that won’t be tamed. 

**~** 

James’ mobile phone number no longer works and Robbie gets one email back from him. 

_Dear Robbie, I hope your trip was enjoyable and you and Laura are keeping well.  You sound worried, there’s no need. I am fine, just needed a change. James_

That in response to seventeen different messages with seventeen different ways of asking, ‘where the buggering hell are you?’. 

Something not right about it.  That message.  It gives no inch, no hint. Of why, or where. It is a deliberate withholding of information disguised as the opposite.  It is another brick in the wall of silence.  Makes it feel, yes, personal. 

**~** 

There is a possible sighting. 

On a family day out in London, a DC sees someone who might be Hathaway.  The man is leaving a café the DC is shepherding his kids into.  The DC folds under questioning.  He couldn’t make a positive ID, couldn’t swear it wasn’t some other skinny, blond seven-footer.  Robbie resists reminding him he is paid for his observational skills and asks, ‘which café?’ 

They locate it using google and Robbie goes to Chapel Street.  He reasons that an ‘accidental’ encounter is not the same as deploying the tools available to him as a policeman to find someone who does not want to be found.  It is a simple experiment to determine whether their peculiar algebra of connection still holds.  Time by proximity by mysterious unknown quantity.  What did James call it?  The _twist and writhe_ , the solution to their particular knot. 

The café is one you might expect to find James in.  An independent business among the chains.  No music, no nonsense, dark wood, china mugs, homemade, organic.  Terrible tea but good, though pricey, coffee.  He waits and continues to wait. 

Late summer into winter, scarcely noticing the seasons pass he visits once, sometimes twice, a week.  Soon the staff do not need to ask his order when he comes in.  They are a shifting population of youngsters originating, as is London’s way, from three or four continents.  Sometimes he commiserates with them over the news from their home countries and wonders if James is caught up in that natural disaster or this political crisis. 

He has a photograph on his phone, taken at the last Christmas party.  He could show it to the staff, see if they recognise James as another regular customer, but he never does.  Perhaps when he is ready to be disappointed. 

**~** 

Laura says her spare room is his for as long as he needs it and he waits out the month for the tenants in his own flat to come to the end of their lease.  He has been renting to students and the place needs work. A good clean, a coat of paint to cover the Blu Tack marks, a new sofa.  He cannot summon the energy for the work.  Instead, on spare afternoons, he takes the train to London. 

One day, a familiar face. 

“Robbie?” 

He is startled to find Jean Innocent at his table.  And that would be Assistant Chief Constable Innocent.  She is in London for a meeting for which she is both early and insufficiently caffeinated. 

“I rather got the impression he was out of the country,” she says when she is seated with flat-white and toasted sourdough. 

He does not tell her why he is here and evades her enquiries, but the conversation works its way around to James anyway. 

“Joe mentioned Hathaway had resigned,” she says, hinting at the chilling possibilities of Moody and Innocent in regular contact. “I dropped James an email about one of our vacancies.  Just on the off chance.” 

“And he replied?”  

“He said he was travelling and not looking for work at the moment.” 

“He didn’t say where?” 

“No, he very specifically didn’t.” 

She has the measure of him with a glance, “And you’re concerned.” 

“He’s a grown man,” Robbie says.  “He can do as he likes.” 

“He’s alive and emailing as of last month.  That’s something.” 

“Aye,” he agrees.  “It is.” 

“And he said travelling, which implies return.” 

Although James doesn’t travel, does he, he takes flight.  And it rarely works out well for him. 

As she puts on her coat, she dips to peck an unexpected kiss on his cheek, “Look after yourself, Robbie.  You look like you did when I first knew you.” 

As she taps away, ever impressive and mistress of her own destiny he is struck by a sense of his own ridiculousness.  He is aware of the futility of what he is doing, he has been from the beginning.  Even if James does regularly come here, and there is nothing to say he does, the chances of encountering him are remote.  If it was a genuine sighting, which is far from certain, James might have visited once on his way to Timbuktu where he currently resides.  He might be anywhere on the planet. 

And James does not want to see Robbie.  He has made that, if nothing else, clear.  Robbie has, in some unarticulated way, let him down, disappointed him, and he has settled matters by leaving. 

So why, knowing all this, is he persisting in such a pointless exercise?  Is it because, as Innocent implied, he is grieving for the man?  Just as he had been grieving for Val when he returned to Oxford a decade ago.  

He has to stop this; it is no way to live a life.  He has a home, he has work to do.  He has a life he must rebuild.  Without Val or the children or Laura.  Without James. 

Robbie stands to leave, but stops when he notices rain and hailstones pounding at the windows.  It had been dry when he came in and he had not even noticed it start.  So much for being here to observe, so much for being on the alert for skinny, blond seven footers. 

It is too overwhelming, he can move no further.  He can take no forward step while he is so incomplete a being, when he is so alone in the world. 

The waitress is moving from table to table, clearing and wiping.  A moment later she is beside him with a glass and a bottle of water. 

“You don’t have to go out in that, do you?  Sit down for a bit, go on, you’ll feel better.” 

He does sit down, just at that moment nothing else seems possible.  He doesn’t dare imagine what a wretched specimen he must appear.  He has to stop this.  

**~** 

But Saturday comes around and his flat is a prison cell.  Robbie finds himself at a loss without the peaceful welcome of Chapel Street and doesn’t bother to fight it. 

Now when he comes here his coffee is cold before he notices it. From his corner table, he visits the past; his childhood, the family he and Val made, the murders solved and pavements pounded.  The coiling, knotting ropes taking him through life for all their tendency to suddenly snap. 

He travels at last, to his years with James; to the principle stopping points and waystations on their journey.  He interrogates himself in the court room of his heart. He looks inwardly, and finds, finally, the man who has carved a place for himself there.    

He glances up at the door.  He does it more from habit than in hope but perhaps today will be different.  Perhaps James will somehow know of his revelation and answer his silent call.  Perhaps he will slide into the chair opposite, perhaps their hands will touch, perhaps their lips. 

He writes another email which may fall into the black hole with all the rest.  He tells James he understands why he had to leave and thanks him for staying as long as he did.  He says that if James should happen to be anywhere near London next Saturday he would be glad to see him if that seems possible. 

**~** 

The stream of pedestrians passing by the cafe remains steady, the supply of people who are not James is endless.  This is the last time he will come here but the expectation in his fool of a heart is as strong as it was the first time. 

But at last, when they are stacking chairs and sweeping floors, he has to give up. 

He puts on his coat; April but it is as cold as February.  It has passed from summer to spring in the time he has been coming here.  From summer to spring is a suitable period of mourning and he managed this one without brandy.  He has honoured what he had with James and what might have been.  He can do no more. 

Outside the café, the river pushes onward, ever transient, from source to sea in constant renewal, like the city it birthed, like its rising, fading generations, like the ancient god who never sets down his trident.  Robbie turns to walk back to the underground. 

“Robbie!” 

**~** 

“My flight was delayed.  I thought I’d missed you.” 

_James_. 

Wearing a rucksack and carrying a guitar case, he has been running.  He is tanned and his hair is sun-bleached almost flaxen.  Robbie deduces he has not been anywhere near Southwark in some time. 

Robbie’s impulse to hug is translated to a firm grip on each of James’ arms.  It seems less an expression of affection than an attempt at anchoring but James smiles anyway, “Hello, Robbie.” 

His email coincided with the end of James’ time with the Jesuits in Italy.  He has been working with refugees.  ‘Learning humility,’ he says.  Robbie’s heart sinks as it always does when James falls among Catholics.  

“Where are you off to now?”  Robbie asks when James has caught his breath. 

James shrugs, the gesture failing to convey carefree nonchalance, “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”  

Robbie has a spare set of flat keys in his pocket, collected that morning from the letting agent.  He holds them out to James who does not take them. 

“I’m back in my old place,” Robbie says.  “I want you to think of it as home if you ever need a home.” 

“That’s kind,” he says soberly and then making the connection, “But why –” 

“I’m not with Laura anymore.” 

“Robbie, I’m sorry.” 

“I’m not and she’s not.  James, can we go for a coffee or even better, a drink?  Can we talk for a while?” 

“I don’t - I don’t think so.”  Robbie can see he is getting ready to deliver difficult news.  “I’m just here to say goodbye.  I owe you that.  It was selfish to go without a word to you, but I’m not coming back.  I promised myself I would never go back to Oxford.” 

Robbie is taken aback by the vehemence of the declaration.  If he had worked up the courage for a declaration of his own, it has evaporated. 

“I see,” he says. 

“You said you understood, I hope you can forgive me.” 

“I’m the one that should be asking forgiveness.  I’m sorry things went the way they did.  And I was so little help.” 

“There was nothing you could have done.” 

James stares down at the keys still in Robbie’s hands with something Robbie identifies as longing in his eyes.  He drops them into the pocket of James’ jacket. 

“Goodbye, then, James.  I won’t keep you.” 

He walks away because he doesn’t think he can watch James do it.  

He fills the weeks that follow with work, not allowing himself to succumb to what feels like a new, more final loss.  Work is familiar and dependable; a means to exist without the pull of Chapel Street, without the luxury of hope. 

**~** 

Then one night in sultry July, James appears in his bedroom.  How did he manage it?  Did he hack a path out of the marshy jungles of Robbie’s dream?  He lifts a hand and James, or the dream of him, comes to sit beside him on the bed.  He strokes the silk of James’ hair, and he bows his head. 

**~** 

He finds James asleep in the spare room the next morning.  It does not look to have been a restful night; he has fought off his sleeping bag and, no doubt, sundry demons and is sprawled, battle weary across the narrow bed. 

Persuaded only now, that James is really here, he leaves him a note and goes to work.  They meet for a pint; outside beside the river in their usual way when there are tributes to be paid.  Robbie senses the old god in a sweeter temper here, blue-sparkling under the evening sun. 

James has been walking in quiet corners of England, “There’s such a thing as too much time to think,” he unexpectedly concludes. 

He has left his inner undertaker behind, carrying himself with pensive grace in jeans and faded T-shirt.  Robbie does not risk asking why his resolution to never enter Oxford again failed and they speak of nothing much until the sun despairs of them and sets. 

At around four, Robbie’s fitful sleep is disturbed by the sound of movement in the next room. He gets up, fearful that whatever sent James away before will compel him to pull on his boots and leave again.  But he finds him sitting on the bedroom floor beneath the open window, book discarded, an arm of his wire-framed glasses absently chewed.  He isn’t going anywhere but neither is he at ease. 

“I disturbed you,” James says. 

“Nothing new there.” 

He acknowledges this with a laugh and further draws up his knees so Robbie can get by.  Robbie sits down beside him to the astonishment of unaccustomed muscles.  He contemplates, from this new perspective, James’ long, lightly tanned legs in shorts. 

“You haven’t asked me why I came back,” James says.  “After that speech I gave.” 

“Go on then, if you want to tell me.” 

He considers his answer, “Getting away doesn’t work.  It never works.  The thing you’re running from comes with you.” 

“I believe that’s true,” Robbie says.  “Is that why you came back to Oxford after your walk last time?” 

“Yes, I suppose.  And it’s not that I don’t learn from my mistakes, its more that this time, I thought I ought to, once and for all –.” He gazes up at the ceiling and then back at Robbie.  “I ought to stop following you around Oxford like a puppy.” 

Robbie notices the rare silence of the road outside, the breathless anticipation of these early hours before dawn. 

“It was to do with me.” 

“Nothing new there.  But when we met in London...  Can I ask you something?  Why did you break up with Laura?” 

“She broke up with me.  She worked out I was in love with someone else.” 

James looks questioningly at him, not allowing himself to understand, perhaps scanning the card index of his memory for all the eligible women of their acquaintance, not currently incarcerated. 

“I waited for you,” Robbie says.  “In Chapel Street.  I looked for you there.  I missed you, you see, and I realised something, I realised -, oh, bloody hell, you’ll think I’ve gone doolally.” 

He is not good at this.  He flounders and runs out of ways to explain his discovery, to convey to James what he has come to mean to him. 

“Robbie, please,” James exclaims.  “Speak to me.  Because I’ve loved you for a long time and its painful and it never goes away and if you’re telling me–” 

“I am,” he interrupts.  “I am telling you.” 

Robbie reaches for James’ closest hand and brings its palm to his lips.  There is a soft inhalation, a gasp, an alien sound, the sound of the door to some sealed chamber of his heart swinging open.  

“I’m sorry I’ve caused you pain.  I’m sorry for my wilful heedlessness.  I love you.” 

David Capstone told them, if you can discover how DNA coils are packed you can unpack them, modify them, repair them, learn more about how the organism in question functions.  In the same way as discovering James stitched into the fabric of his being leads to a belated understanding of the moth-chewed patchwork that is Robbie Lewis.  And understanding the mathematics of their attachment somehow solves their long-standing mystery and puts James, at last, into his arms.

End

 

December 2017


End file.
